


Lunch with a Wren

by MorriganFearn



Series: Little Islands and Territories [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Historical Hetalia, Magical Realism, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23341969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorriganFearn/pseuds/MorriganFearn
Summary: February 1942 - It looks as though Germany is going to win the war. On the small island of Faroes an airbase and RDF is being built, but none of this might be in time as Germany concentrates German naval power in the North Sea.
Relationships: Åland Islands (Hetalia)/Faroe Islands (Hetalia)
Series: Little Islands and Territories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673191
Kudos: 6





	Lunch with a Wren

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fairywine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywine/gifts).



> A re-publish with minor edits from FFN, just for Fairywine. This one is only 9 years old.

“ _. . .you should now assume the duty of concerting action to make the Faroes satisfactory for our_ _purposes. Pray make a weekly report. DCNS will supply you with the requirements. We must have an aerodrome and RDF (radar) at the very earliest moment, together with AA defence, and a few coastal guns. This will be a very tempting base for a raid . . .” - Winston Churchill, in his role as First Sea Lord, April 16, 1940_

**Lunch with a Wren**

February 13, 1942

Site of the Vágar Airbase, the Faroe Islands

Wrapped in wool against the nip of the February morning, the Faroe Islands had to shake her head at seeing England in nothing more than a rain slicker for protection over his uniform. Scotland always told her, of course, that England had all the sense of a sheep, but as a loyal neice-ish sort of person, she ignored the jibe from her Uncle's brother. Orkney and Shetland could get just as mean about each other, and she ignored them all the time.

Starting down the icy hill in her sensible black regulation shoes with the non-regulation three layers of equally sensible wool socks, Faroes caught up with her shivering occupier. “Uncle Arthur, I have something for you.”

He started, jerking out of whatever reverie had possessed him. “What? Oh! Astrid. What are you doing here?”

Rummaging in her carry bag, the young lady snorted in an unlady-like manner, and drawled with the hint of sarcasm that was her people's by long inheritance. “Giving you a scarf. What else would I be doing?”

England took the lumpy black and gray bundle, shaking it out gratefully. “Sometimes you just beg me for chocolate.” [1]

Although this was not the reason the Faroes had tracked her way from Torshavn to the Western-most island of her land, the thought of chocolate sent greed winging its way through her stomach. “Well, if you have any,” she tried to bat her eyelashes at England.

The false scowl at these words could not be maintained by even Arthur's imposing eyebrows, and they began to laugh together. Wrapping her arms about her midsection, the Faroes wheezed for a second, before observing the laboring men, carrying beams and metal sheets around the land. “So, this will do for it, then?”

“Hm?”

She gestured widely with her gloved hand. “The airport. I have to tell you, sir, not every herder here is glad to give up their grazing land to your 'dangerous contraptions,'” Faroes stood a little straighter, trying to put on her dignity as the island's representative. The Logting still had some say in the running of the island, after all.

Arthur haruphed, adjusting his new muffler. “They'll be glad enough for the work that it'll take to get this running to ignore the plight of a few dratted sheep. I need the base here. We've been able to make do with the fleet's air arm on cruisers, but Germany has been increasing his attacks.”

“Is that why the _Sheffield_ and _Kenya_ have been adding more mines every few days, Uncle?” she fixed him with an interested gaze. England had promised to protect her, but Faroes was still not certain that she needed the protection. No one could assail her lovely mountains if she did not welcome them, and the sea mines were a danger to her fisherman. Since Arthur was now relying on her fish imports, he should be a bit more considerate.

England gave her a piercing glance. “How did you know it was the  _Sheffield_ and  _Kenya_ , young lady? You know military operations are—”

“They have to put into port somewhere, and I think a few of the human boys on the cruisers are a bit sweet on me,” Faroes replied smugly, wanting to put Arthur in his place. She had her own sources of information. Unfortunately, the way England was going red in the face, and scowling, another lecture was in the wind. Oh, of course. Honestly, couldn't Uncle Arthur understand? She was a land. Humans didn't interest her. Not like that anyway. “Oh, don't splutter. I didn't mean they want to walk out with me or anything. I just meant that they like me, the islands. The land of Faroes. There's a nice young man on the _Sheffield_ who has a best girl in town and he says he loves it here so much he might just stay. I think it's brilliant.”

The choleric red receded, but England ran his fingers through his hair, yanking slightly. The wind blowing cold off the sea was already doing a good enough job of rumpling his blond haystack, and Faroes had to fight to keep the grin from her face. He clearly wouldn't appreciate it in his temper. “You're—It's not the kind of thing a young lady should be thinking about. Especially not a young lady of our kind.”

Hah. As though he hadn't fallen in love with his human queens before. She liked England, but what a hypocrite. Maybe it was her new position in the world as a strategic location, but she felt more able to judge the great powers who had claimed the right to speak for her. She was no longer a little girl about to be presented to the Queen regent of Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and the associated islands. Faroes was possessed of a voice, and she would use it!

“Moreover, young men in _my_ navy shouldn't be thinking about settling down—”

Faroes did not like the implications of this statement. “What do you mean? It's—”

“War time. They could die, and what if they left a young girl in trouble? Hmm?” usually this was 'unseemly' conversation territory for England, which meant that it must be a serious concern for the old nation.

Faroes did not like that idea at all. “The war can't last forever. I don't see why anyone should put their personal lives on hold just because, well, just because Germany's being evil and stupid.”

The rebuttal to this was subdued. “It should be put on hold if the young men in question are serving in a navy on the losing side.”

Shocked, Faroes looked around in consternation, worried that the sound might have carried to the industrious humans. No, thank goodness. No one was stopped, staring at the two figures in their uniforms. Angrily, Faroes fisted her hands in the long folds of her uniform skirt. “Well, we're _not_ going to lose! I won't allow it!”

England smiled one-sidedly. “Oh, I have no intention of letting Germany win. But my little sheep girl, not letting him win England has nothing to do with not losing. And anyway, you're not part of this war officially, little missy.”

“I have air bases,” with a dramatic sweep of her dark blue arm the Faroes took in the cold flat space that had already been cleared as a landing field. “I have the hat that _you_ gave me,” she pointed proudly at her naval brim with her English name written large upon it, “and I support you. I'd tell Germany to his face.”

“Preserve us,” England muttered in irritation. “Have you _heard_ what happened to Jersey and Gurnsey, girl [2]? And they've never even been fully keen on me.”

He was never going to see beyond some delusion that she was a young island with eyes only darting nervously to the corners in case Denmark had been drinking while thinking about the old union days again, and thus considering changing her economic structure. Again. Still, there were only so many battles that could be won, and a doting England at least brought her chocolate. If he had seen her two months ago he would not be so quick to think her too young to understand the current and tide of the world. Then again, if he had seen her two months ago he would probably have gray hair and bitten his own tongue in half in 'worry fury.'

A sudden question from England caught Faroes off guard. “Is there anything you want to tell me, girl?”

Opening her dark eyes wide in her best approximation of innocence, the personification of the islands dissembled as she always had about her illicit attempt at visiting Denmark over Christmas. England could be a little too perceptive, sometimes. It must be his unseen little friends he kept talking about. “Well, I was wondering—could I work with the girls in the radio center today? I know you want me supporting this project, Uncle, but I'd much rather, um, well, it is a bit cold. Just because I'm used to these temperatures doesn't mean that I _want_ to freeze around outside.”

The famous eyebrows, black under the man's striking blond hair and green cap, knotted together in disapproval. “You gossip together with those girls far too much.”

A wide grin split the Faroes' pointed face. “Of course I do! I wouldn't what to work with anyone I couldn't talk with. They tell me about all the latest fashions, and—”

“I don't listen to this talk from Northern Ireland, and I refuse to be deluged by, by _silliness_ from you, either!” England exclaimed in mock horror.

Pah, Astrid thought privately. She had no face-to-face dealings with Northern Ireland since she had reached her teen years age, but she had heard _stories_ about Molly. Tough as nails, and probably as unlikely to engage in silliness would be her guess. “I'll take it that I have my commanding officer's permission, then?”

“Yes, yes,” England waved at her. “Serve there until I tell you otherwise. You're under the charge of,” he closed his eyes for a moment, and Faroes felt him reaching for his humans, sorting through them with quick efficiency, “Captain Wolwith. Of course, you may take nation prerogative if something comes up—Astrid—”

Arthur caught her in the act of turning from him to bound away like an arrow from a bow. She halted, and looked back, wondering what he was going to tell her. The soft tone suggested that he was leaving England behind for a second. Stepping out of the role, and into the person, as it were. The tall woman smiled, hoping that warmth would help Arthur say what he had to. “Yes?”

A billowing cloud of his uncertain breath was whisked away by the chill wind. “I'm sorry about the fishermen yesterday. I should have told you that we had mined near that current recently.”

Ah. Faroes fidgeted, letting the wintry air wrap around her in its chilling way. “Really—I can't be there with everybody. I was needed at the radio office, anyway. You had that sighting of the _Prinz Eugene_ to keep track of, and I needed to be concentrated on my airspace in case one of the Gerry decided to use the cloud cover to show up. Things will be easier once we get the RDF stations built.”

Arthur shook his head. “If I had told you, you might have been able to subconsciously warn the fishing fleet. Or I could have taken you off air watch. It's not as though they're fielding pilots of the caliber that they used to. Sea watch might have—It slipped my mind. I know that isn't much of an apology—”

“Nonsense,” Faroes cut him off stoutly. “These things happen. I'll go to the funerals, and miss them, but this is a war. We know the risks on these islands. Now, I'm going off to gossip, and learn all the best American films, and come back to talk your ears off about Gregory Peck, Bing Crosby and—and Fred Astaire.”

She turned to run before England could begin to object. American-philia always irritated him, but Astrid couldn't help it. America was so glamorous. It was new. Fresh. Filled with ideas, and women who were tough, and men who were beautiful. It was a magical place where the rules just weren't the same.

She throttled down the disloyal thought that she hadn't been interested in upsetting the rules and traditions until last December. Things were changing. She had been ancient and unchanged for years—and none of _that_ was helping win the war for her family, or the nations she looked to as examples of leadership. Airbases were only the start. It had to happen. She had to _grow_. There wasn't time to be everyone's little girl any more.

Her shoes slipped on the ice rimed dirt road. Normally rock and pebbles were safer than pavement in the winter, but all it could take was a rainstorm just before a light freeze, and then even the island, skidding down her own slope with windmilling arms, was hard pressed to stop a tumble. Twisting one foot to the side as though she was skiing, the Faroes managed to break her quick fall before the heavy skirt could be ruined.

She breathed out heavily, looking around in case anyone had noticed. There was no one on the lonely road, although a rumble in the distance suggested that a truck with more building supplies would be in sight soon. If only the road wasn't so close to the cliffs and the sea—A flash of yellow caught her eye. A simple trawler, its cold steel sides painted blue, made its way through the swell. Between the steam stacks gold and red-crossed blue fluttered a defiant declaration of neutrality.

What on Earth—was he going to _visit_ her?

Turning on her heel once more, Astrid began to run for the town, and radio duty, trying to figure out why her eyes were playing such tricks on her. Oh, they probably weren't. But still, really, what was he doing here? He should be somewhere up France's coast right now, safe in his stupid neutrality in Nazi waters, shouldn't he? From the bare glimpse she had, the Ålander ship wouldn't pull into the harbor at Sørvágur for a long while, and there would be unloading of cargo—or whatever it was that had brought the trawler to her islands—so she had hours to figure out this mystery. Maybe her harbor was just a port in the storm of mines blocking easy access to the east, where this ship belonged.

Yes, the islands thought as her stride ate the meters of her own land, heading west. That was probably it. Her islands looked like a good port for a bit of a rest, and Åland had remembered his promise. If he was going to call on her, it would be out of courtesy to keep that casual comment about dropping by. Still, the Faroes grinned, bitten by exuberance; maybe they could have lunch.

With the war on she had hosted more visitors of Nation-standing, most of them Empire forces. However, most of them were not in her situation, and most were polite because Uncle Arthur was nearby. Åland, a small island in the middle of the Baltic, caught between Sweden and Finland, refused to be polite, and it was wonderful. They could _talk_ , about anything, really. She bet he would understand whale hunting. What a compromise of herself it was to have Britain protecting her, when she should be in Denmark's house, or left to her own devices. How magnificent the open sky over her people's fishing craft could be in the earliest morning.

Maybe she would sneak into the storage shed that Arthur was so sure she knew nothing about, and show Åland her harpoon. He had seemed so mystified in December. It would be easy to prove that she knew what she was talking about. It would be easy to prove on her own land that she was just as quietly competent as he was. Their first meeting had probably not left the sour young man with a favorable impression. Oh, he had warmed up, eventually, but the 'eventually' worried her.

Just because sometimes she let her excitement run to nervous energy, Astrid still did not want to come across as loopy as England and Norway when they were in their invisible friends moods. Goodness knows the closest she had come to seeing anything were some mysterious shadows in one of Iceland's volcanoes, and no one with sense ever asked Greenland why things were floating helpfully to hand, in case the physical support became visible. The so-called pet ghosts were _creepy_.

So, plans! She would make certain to get the most important work out of the way. Then she would not be missed when she took lunch. It wasn't skiving off if you had done all you could? She was just acting as an extra hand, anyway. Making certain that radio transmissions were correctly interpreted by the country wasn't the most important job she had—it would be more important if there were more airplanes trying to use the air, but since the sinking of the _Hood_ , and the revenge that the British had taken on the _Bismark,_ things had quieted down in the North Sea, outside of the regular mining, and the shipping coming out of the German anchorages in Trondheim. [3]

What did Father think of that? He must be furious. Scotland had let something drop about seeing Norway recently. She bet that he was still working in the Resistance. Anko—Anko must be doing something, too. Both of the nations she looked to as parental figures were heroes, Faroes told herself. No matter what noises Norway-through-Scotland made about collaborators. If anyone was collaborating, it was Sweden, letting the Germans have his iron, and refusing to fight for his brethern as he ought. Faroes felt righteously ashamed of a man she had only met a very few times over the centuries.

Below her on the slope, the horseshoe harbor of Sørvágur finally separated its white reflection from the dusting of snow all around. Just faintly, but still visible, the waves curled into blue gray lines before washing the barnacle encrusted stones of the shore. The houses in their bright reds and blues remained subdued in snow-covered huddles, but lights showed in plenty of them, suggesting occupation, and defiance of the gray louring sky.

The radio post had been an old fisherman's home before the occupation. However, the sea in her cruelty had taken him late in 1940, and now it remained simply an impersonal building at the edge of the wide harbor with clear reception [4]. The intended construction for human comfort was a bonus to the personified islands who had spent the whole month of yet another freezing January dashing around her land helping with building projects. Here, monitoring the coast with eyes, and ears, even in the coldest of weather, the little attic room where the radio controls resided was steamily warm. There was to be a new radio in the airport, but chances were that it wouldn't be finished until May.

Pulling open the door, the Faroes felt the need to remove her heavy wool coat immediately. As she hustled toward the pegs by the stairs she passed one of the young ladies who held the weight of the old tea thermos. What was her name? Something marvelously English.

“Hallo Astrid,” the mousey haired woman began in a voice that growled full with Orkney's rocks and gravel, making the name game a little easier. Yeah. Agnes. “Has his eyebrows set you off here?” [5]

Faroes darted a distracted look over her shoulder to the kitchen, “That's right. Is the captain in?”

With a slosh the thermos ended up on the counter, as Agnes jerked her thumb to the upper floors. “Oh aye. Her engine froze this morning and she's madder than a bee in this weather. She's going to blame you for not making your roads safer for cycles in the winter.”

“I have no control over the weather! I defy her to take her complaints up with Commander England, or Mr. Norway,” the blond retorted, grinning, but patting her cap, and making certain that her shoes were in uniform trim. An irritable CO only needed one excuse to pounce.

Agnes busied herself as the kettle on the stove screamed. “Well, they had a cargo ship in early, and some of those dark ships[6],” the conspiratorial wink from gray eyes spoke of the endangerment of the State Secrets Act, “but nothing else. They're all be thirsty for a good bit of tea, and watch change'll be in half an hour. I say we have it ready for the girls, and I can tell you the sweet news. We're to get some men in once the you-know-what's are built. Fine Canadian engineers. You like the idea, Astrid? I've seen their nation back when I was in training. He's, well, even if he does have glasses, I wouldn't say 'no' to a night out.”

“Mmm,” Astrid had forgotten how gossipy Agnes could be. Besides, “I've never seen him, actually.”

Fishing, the garrulous human continued, trying to get a rise out of Astrid. “He's easy on the eyes—tall and blond, and he's a pilot, you know. A little on the shaggy side, but with a good girl to neaten him up—”

Astrid suddenly had a vision of a Denmark-like figure with a long beard. Not her idea of a romantic prospect, but certainly ridiculous. She giggled slightly, shaking her head at Agnes. “No. Just a thought. I like my landed personifications to be on an _acceptable_ level of scruffy, that's all. And really, a full nation when I'm just a county. It's not done, you know.”

Annoyed by the lack of imagination, Agnes pushed a tea cup into the hands of the young island lady. “Huh. Class and all that? Don't your people get it? Things are changing, aren't they? We're not going to have to live like that after the war. I've got a brother who's worked every shipyard in Edinburgh, and his best girl is the daughter of the magistrate. It's not—we're not part of this any more. You can't tell me that you land-things don't change with your society—”

“Which isn't yours,” the Faroe Islands grinned, her blue eyes lighting to remove any sting from her refusal to gripe along. “We're fine with the way things are here. Do you think I should go up and report? I could bring the thermos.”

Still annoyed by the lack of ready twitter and giggles, Agnes reached for the battered aluminum can. “Hold your horses. I can't see why you're so eager to get chewed out, and start slaving over the various messages. Even if we pick up code, you know it's going to be just a ship or two of our own. We never get their u-boats.”

“Guiding my ships home still matters to _me_ ,” the Faroes objected, making Agnes laugh.

She tossed her head back, the smile coming with the laughter making the young human lose the lines that creased her brow, although she did not seem to even realize how the pressure of service was affecting her. “I suppose it does at that. Right ma'am. Consider me suitably chastened. Here's your tea. Everyone upstairs should have their cups already.”

Accepting the thermos, Astrid waved good bye, and trotted up the stairs. Just in time to nearly run down the commanding officer at the top. Wincing at her bad timing, Faroes tried to side-step at the last minute, and grabbed onto the tea, hoping that the impending storm did not break over her. However, with a dragon in the house, and all commanding officers from England seemed to be dragonish, there was no such luck.

“Faroes! I was not informed that you would be joining us today,” somehow the wintry reaction made having the advantage of having a personification helping out seem like an inefficient use of time. And possibly an affront to the formidable lady's sense of schedule.

Used to acerbic Britishers who meant no actual harm, Faroes grimly pressed a smile on her face. “Yes, sir. I'll do whatever you need of me. In this case, I brought tea.”

“Good,” the tightness of the dark hair in its bun made Astrid wonder if blood was capable of getting to the woman's scalp. Maybe she would be less unhappy if she didn't subject herself to bobby pin induced torture. “Pour the girls some, and then take McLaine's post. Fresh eyes and ears might help,” again, with a voice that was as cool as the air outside, Faroes felt as though that option was a vain hope in the CO's mind.

She sighed, but went around to the other two radio operators. A bright girl from Hampshire named Lucy giggled very quietly, and winked when it came her turn to proffer a delicately floral cup. When Astrid sat down opposite she breathed: “Don't worry. She's been on us since the morning. The only good thing is that Wolwith is easier than Smith. He was running night shift.”

As Astrid put on her headset, she wondered briefly if she would ever be unlucky enough to deal with two grumpy English officers in a row. She smiled sympathetically at Lucy. “Tough luck, Holbrooke.”

“Do I hear unnecessary chatter?” Captain Wolwith snapped, her thick heels clumping across the wooden floor.

Both young ladies put their heads down quickly, but Astrid could not help a smile suffusing her, as she bent to her task. There, in the yellows of the imported lumber walls, smelling of wood shavings, dust and spiders, the warm conviviality of the women pressed around her. No nation, vast and incomprehensible, could ever know how wonderful it was to be with humans like this, the Faroes thought wistfully. Northwest of town, and over the rolling slopes England supervised labor on his air base. Did he ever let anyone who was not in his government, or an artist, get close to him?

That question, like gossip about Ginger Rogers' clothing, was probably forbidden. Yet she had to thank England, oddly. If Denmark was still free, she would probably be clustered with the men, based on the assumption that a personification advising the generals was the most valuable use for her. Uncle Arthur had put her with his women because he had some idea that a woman would understand the patriotism required of a woman better than any man. Or something. It was not as exciting, and Astrid still preferred to be out with the fishing fleet, feeling out mines in her water, but for the first time in, well, maybe forever, she was being given the opportunity to giggle along as a girl, and there was nothing more fun than this new experience. She had a newer appreciation for old aunties sitting around the table, knitting and laughing. Suddenly the groups of girls that she had rudely jeered at while running around in her new breeches did not seem that strange. Oh the mistakes of the 1800s.

The shift changed around her, new girls tromping up the stairs armed with tea, the convivial Lucy, and the chatty Agnes leaving for their well-earned rest. A flight returning from the Bay of Biscay chattered over the comm, their identifying parrots bleeping pitifully. Astrid wondered if the anti-aircraft guns ever made a mistake, even with the transmitters in the planes. Of course, if she was German she would learn how to counterfeit the tag. It was a good thing for Arthur's army that she was on his side, Faroes decided virtuously, as she welcomed another ship carrying materials for the airport into the harbor.

It wasn't until one in the afternoon that a man growling in Swedish announced that the _Rökt Sill_ wished to dock. As the only one who understood the words over the crackle and crash of the static, Astrid answered, and allowed the docking. Really, just a formality, but she did smile to herself at the politeness of the men aboard the ship.

Probably Åland had scowled about it. He scowled about everything, of course, but if the reactions of other grim, truculent men who she knew were anything to go by, even for a friend, Åland would scowl and begrudge the slightest hint of anything out of the usual brusqueness. Especially for a friend, really. She really must tell him how predictable he was. Preferably when he was taking a drink of something. She bet he spluttered magnificiently.

Finally, Wolwith remembered that she had been on shift from eight, and she was let off: “I'll expect you at five for the night shift. Major Smith will tell me if you skive off.”

“Yes, sir,” Faroes almost laughed, heading out the door, and planning a stop at the market for late lunch. Maybe she'd walk down to the harbor with her lunch and an extra bottle of ginger beer. Maybe.

Hmm. The baker probably still had some rolls, and glorious cheese was everywhere. Pulling on her heavy coat, Astrid plotted a marvelous show of lunch and hospitality that would make Åland blush at his own scowl. Yeah. Sticking her nose outdoors, the blond was a little upset to see that the temperature had dropped a few degrees. She should have brought a scarf. Oh well, at least she had her hat. Stepping onto the hoary frost of the street, she briskly headed toward the bakery.

Maybe she should ascertain that Åland was indeed on his boat, but she thought she felt his calm sea laced presence pressing at the very edge of her harbor, ever so gently. Poor boy was such a wallflower. She made her presence known every time she opened her mouth—it was the only way to live, unless you wanted to be completely over-ridden in Denmark's house. Åland would have been eaten alive by her father. Of course, when she introduced them there would probably be— _Get a bit of a grip, will you_? _If you ever do introduce them, it will probably be as a vassal of Germany introducing another German state to a region of a valued German ally. You won't be allowed to introduce them._

_For all you know, all the help that you've given Britain will mean that you'll be classified as a hostile personification like the Channel Isles, and you'll spend your time being re-educated. Denmark will drink his way through the new world order, and poor Uncle Arthur will be all alone, cooped up on his island._

_It isn't fair._

_Why can he hold out when Anko had to capitulate? Anko is brave and a fighter, and instead he didn't even fight—_

Shaking her head to clear the unpleasant thoughts, Astrid stopped by a house, noticing the gleam of her reflection in the window. Well, more like her black silhouette against the white of the sky reflected in the glass. Still, that was enough. She patted her hair for a moment, trying to remember that a lady-like appearance would lead to lady-like thoughts. Or at least make her confident enough not to break down in front of everyone. She should have worn her hair up with all sorts of pins today. Elegantly, with the care a real woman took with her hair. Oh well. At least the bottom curled under evenly, hitting her shoulders, and the few pins did pull it back from her face fashionably enough—maybe England was right, she was spending too much time with the girls. Fashion? Function was the point, and this style pulled it out of her face admirably. Even the tight fishtail braid she had worn when the Netherlands, and later Denmark, controlled her markets and life in its entirety would be fine.

It was still nice to know that she would be greeting the  Å land Islands in an hairstyle that did not make her look as uncomfortable as Captain Wolwith, though. The time she had worn that fishtail braid had been a very hungry time, she remembered, and nothing had been able to soften her cheeks. These recent decades had been much kinder to her, letting face and maybe some—possibly imagined—figure fill out more.

Fixing her hat to a slightly firmer angle, she smiled at herself, and then waved at the surprised doggy face in the window, before continuing on her way. Some old herder's companion retired to his well-earned spot by the fire. Faroes approved immensely. She had always hoped to find one of the immortal animals that sometimes cropped up in the form of a sheep dog. Instead she had one silly sheep who spent most of his time asleep, and was afraid of water. Tyr could be exasperating.

Still, she thought, practically skipping down the slick street, nodding affably at the humans, she never ran out of wool with Tyr on hand. That counted for something, even if she found the business of carding and spinning beyond boring.

Ducking into the bakery, Astrid found herself greeted with excited voices. The family running things was honored to have her visit their establishment so far from Torshaven, and did she know what the spring was too bring, and what about the shipping? Could she perhaps scare more fish into the nets?

Well, obviously, she replied, all she had to do was make a face and the fish would leap into the boats to get away from her. Astrid leaned over the counter, and picked out four square rolls, smelling of golden harvests on far away lands.

The baker's wife carefully put them in newspaper, and advised Astrid to hurry, if she wanted to get some mackerel. It was unlikely that there would be any left this late in the day—as if to underscore the lateness, a church bell tolled the hour, declaring that it was two—but you never knew.

Thanking her wise resident, and leaving the lady's son still spluttering over his inadvertent implication that Faroes was ugly, the personification of the islands left the shop. The bite of winter's air still hanging over her head, Astrid only had to trot a few meters to her next destination, but this attempt at securing provisions was much more difficult. Not only was there nothing made of fishy goodness this late in the day—although the man behind the counter could get her kidneys or sausage fairly cheaply—the conversation was a lengthy, one-sided complaint about the weather.

Faroes listened patiently as the sausage, and a pat of butter were wrapped in brown paper for her, forbearing to comment on the dark aspersions the grocer cast upon General Winter allying with Gerry-scum in order to make their world more difficult. Now was probably not the time to tell the man that there actually was such a creature as General Winter. Even using a name could alert malevolent spirits if you weren't careful, and Astrid had no desire to fight him. Norway's tales were terrifying enough. Anyway, he was stuck in Russia's domain quite happily, unless something really untoward had happened. These last few years had just been unusually cold, that was all.

As she fiddled inside her pocket for the money she needed to pay for this meal, Faroes trained her land sense towards the harbor again, worried that her guest might have finished whatever had called him into port, and had headed out to sea instead of waiting to see her. Even with all of the new nation-y faces arriving and departing her islands, she did not get _so_ many visitors that to lose one of such importance would have been a blow. Not really that Åland was all that important. But, well, he was, too.

Dear goodness, she was going to go as scatterbrained as Anko at this rate. The Faroes tried to give herself a mental shake. She was getting too excited over meeting people. The sudden influx must be turning her head.

Waving a forceful _goodbye_ , she managed to cut off her grocer's complaints with a promise to see about the weather. Not that there was much that she could do. The natural magic of the earth sent protective wind currents over the islands, if Norway's stories of centuries ago to a fretful child were to be believed, and General Winter would not cross them. If the stories were only so much fantasy, well, there still was nothing that Astrid could do, so that was that.

It took a swallow, and a soft breeze outside to get moving again. The swallow was to arrange her thoughts properly so that she didn't say anything that would put Åland off, and the breeze catching her skirt managed to bite convincingly through her woolen socks, and nip at her ankles. Even if it wasn't immortal, the next puppy she found would most certainly be named Blæsevejr.

Her bread, butter, and sausage clutched tight in their wrapping to her chest, Astrid continued down the paved slope to the harbor. This close to the ocean the snow and ice had given up the struggle against the damp, and retreated in streaky sullen lines. However, with her free hand, she was careful to hug the rising stone walls occasionally bordering the lane, as they reinforced houses looking for flat space on rising land.

The rough stone was enough to anchor her, reminding the Faroes of the high mountains in their brave turf coverings. The rising green covered what was only basalt, and ash. The age of the wind rippling high over the grass land, carrying her laughter through the centuries.

It was hard to let go. She stood uncertainly for a second, perched at the end of the road, looking into the harbor, at the two foreign ships moored and bobbing on the gentle waves. The _Rökt Sill_ must have a shallower draft that she had credited it with, as it rode easily in the harbor. Men in sweaters and caps were climbing all over it, and a few were arguing with the local harbormaster—something about unexpected shipments. Astrid nodded to herself. So, this was a social call, then. Hmm, golden lines of eyebrows came together gently. Why had he gone out of his way? On a spurious excuse—to an island that was, if anything, his enemy, or at least the enemy of his father? He wasn't really that lonely, was he? From the sounds of it, his Finnish family was large enough to give Åland plenty company. And he could see _them_ with impunity.

Her meeting with him last time left her wondering: Even though he seemed to appreciate and love the humans working on his boat, and he carried such a deep appreciation for his father, perhaps he did not always know that his feelings were returned. Well, in the case of his father, they had better be returned, because Faroes would not stand for it, if Åland's admiration was one sided. Someone who felt so deeply should never have to cast those feelings upon unfeeling objects.

Still, there were happier reasons he could be here. Perhaps he liked to flout authority like this? She'd be willing to join in the lark just as much as she would be willing to host him as a proper acquaintance. Maybe more. She did love to laugh at flouted authority, even if in this case, the authority flouted was probably Uncle Arthur, and Finland.

As if in response to her thoughts, one of the men turned from stacking boxes on the pier, and lifted his brown cap to run his hands through messy silver-blonde wisps of hair. His vague sky blue gaze fixed on the horizon decided her. The Faroes stepped forward, around the harbormaster's gate house, and down the concrete jetty.

“Enjoying the view?” for a moment, the young woman thought that her question had been swallowed by the slap of waves against the bollards, since the object of her attention did not turn.

However, she did not need to worry. He executed the heel change neatly, just as a strong gust blew inland. Both of them grabbed for their hats, and Astrid nearly lost the lunch rolls in the suddenness of her own movement.

“Here!” he exclaimed, trying to dive for the various parcels, and failing.

“No, I've got it!” The Faroes was much better at keeping ahold of what she had in hand already, and stepped back quickly to avoid bumping heads. It took a few moments to grab at the parcel with one hand, and keep it from the wet concrete, and once she turned her attention back to the tall figure of the Åland Islands, she noticed that his cheeks were pink from the cold.

The grumpy personification stuck his hands deep in his pockets, assuming what Astrid had privately labeled 'Slouch No. Three with Associated 'I don't know what to say' Scowl.' There were four slouches that she had identified individually last December. The scowls were harder to read, but that one was similar enough to Iceland's face when Norway asked that the dreaded 'O' word be used.

Åland cleared his throat, as though he had something caught in it. “I was.”

Non-plussed, Astrid cocked her head to one side. “You were what?”

“Enjoying the view. Until _someone_ decided to clutter it with bouncing parcels,” he cleared his throat again, and turned the collar of the great coat up against the insistent breeze that seemed to be determined to push him into the aforementioned parcels firmly held against Faroes' chest. “You've got quite a nice land here. Are there really forts on those mountains out there?”

“Ruins, certainly,” Faroes grinned. “I could take you out to see them, if you're staying a while?”

He shook his head brusquely. “I needed to stop to see to the engine, and off load some of the things I got in Spain, before I head to Norway. I figured that I might as well sell them in a British port than give it up to the British patrols, and get no money.”

Faroes glanced at the crates on the pier. “Um, it just smells like fish, and we have plenty of—”

Exasperation crossed the sharp face in front of her. “It's not just fish, you know. Besides, foodstuffs can't head into Axis occupied waters, just as it can't enter Allied occupied waters.”

“Oh, and what is it, then, Mister Neutrality?”

Like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a black silk hat, suddenly a bright orange was flashed under Astrid's nose. “The fruits of Christmas, Miss Occupied Territory.”

Both chuckled at the rejoinder, and Faroes began to beckon him down the pier. “Okay, I'll admit, we haven't seen anything that good in a long time. Do you want to take a late lunch? I just got off shift, and there's a place just around here that has the most spectacular view.”

Åland began walking with her, not bothering to answer right away, as he dextrously tossed the orange sphere into the air, catching it with a twist and flick of his wrist. Glancing slyly out of his eyes, he caught Faroes' gaze. “Know how to juggle?”

“With one orange?” she returned, turning up to a slushy hill with yellowed dead grass showing in the footprints of other passers by. “Certainly. Can you manage two?”

A second orange appeared from the mysterious deep pockets. “Just about,” the young man answered, putting it in the air with its partner. “Don't ask for three, though, unless you want this treat to head into the sea.”

“Fine,” Astrid replied, choosing a low bench. From here the nearby church blocked the view of the full extent of the harbor, but they were positioned perfectly to watch the low clouds get eaten by the surrounding mountains. “So, I've got bread and sausage. I'm assuming that you have a knife on you? Or is that forbidden to your demilitarized self.”

He rolled his eyes, before fishing around in his pants pocket this time. “Ha ha. Someone take away your fishing rod recently?”

Her reply was gay, knowing that she had hit a sore spot. “Nah. I just don't need it when I'm on land duty, obviously. C'mon, sit down. I'll cut the bread,” she patted the stone of her chosen seat.

Åland remained standing, holding his knife, clearly more used to cutting rope than butter. “My knife, I do the cutting. Give me the bread.”

Since they were both getting cold—although Astrid would admit that she thought the roses which had risen in the weather beaten face and along his nose thanks to the winter's nip did become Åland—she did not bother to argue. Just handed the bread over, and then the butter, kicking her heels together as she admired the view her land provided. These little moments mattered. “Do you like it?”

She must have surprised him, as the knife slipped suddenly though the roll he was working on, stabbing out from the crust. “I—what?”

Leaning back slightly, Astrid swung her arms to take in the spread of water, and the tall, high mountains hugging the fjord. “Do you like my land?”

Hastily, Åland followed the sweep of the arm. The Faroes couldn't help being pleased by the way his eyes lingered. She was probably going to get an honest answer rather than a polite “of course.” She wondered what the Åland Islands were like. She had received the impression of trees and water from skin contact before—something rather like Father's land, she reckoned. Though the young woman doubted that Åland had fjords as beautiful as hers. Hers were the most beautiful in the whole world.

He returned his attention, with the full weight of his glacial eyes, back to her, and in a measured tone answered seriously. “It's—different. I like the shape of it,” a very awkward clearing of the throat, “Very, um, hilly. But I kind of miss the trees. And there's something wrong with your winter.”

“Oh really?” Handing him the sausage because the bread needed it, Astrid raised her eyebrows challengingly. “What exactly? Don't tell my you're like the fishmonger—he wants me to have a talk with the powers that be about the weather.”

“Well, you could use a good blizzard,” that comment caught her off guard, as did the sudden shifting, as Åland rummaged in his pockets. “Sorry, I forgot, well, anyway, here's some more contraband. Can't really think of a use for these, and well, I don't know many girls, so I thought you might do.”

Astrid blinked as a thin, cardboard package was waved in front of her eyes. “These are—my goodness! You found stockings?! How, I haven't seen new stockings since—the girls on the radio will love them. I'll put them up on a lottery. Are these really silk?”

Managing to tear her eyes from the brown netting, the young woman discovered that her guest looked a little troubled. He opened and closed his mouth several times before shaking his head. “I picked them up from an American I met after dropping you off. They say these new nylon stockings are all the rage now. But, well, I didn't think they would need a lottery.”

Ah, Astrid smiled to herself. “I mean a lottery for keeps.”

“But—well, they're for women,” the man tried again, clearly not knowing what to say. “I thought it would be practical. You know, for when you step out dancing with gravity.”

Really? He remembered that silly joke? “Look at me. I don't exactly have a lot of jazz clubs running around this island. It's much more fair that some girl who lives in London, or has a best boy she needs to impress gets it.”

Åland shook his head. “I suppose you're right. It's not as though you have a best boy. Or that you would ever need to impress one.”

“Now that's not fair!”

However, something had distracted her friend, and he was taking a second, longer survey of the land, this time taking in the slope she had chosen. “Hang on—are we eating in a cemetery?!”

Looking down at the plaque that suggested this bench had been placed in the grave yard by a thoughtful son in loving memory of his parents, Astrid shrugged. “Yes. What of it?”

Åland stared, horrified. “It's disrespectful—”

“I'm not over turning gravestones or anything,” the Faroes snapped back. “These are my people. I like to be with them, however old they are. Besides, just the other day, a young man ended up here because of what I'm allowing in my waters, and it's not—I like to be here. Remind myself that there's a war with consequences on, you know?”

He continued to stare, but gingerly took a seat, finally. It wasn't a ringing vote of confidence, but it was a start. As was the sausage slice and butter sandwich he handed her. “You are entirely strange.”

“You're the one who bluffed Germany right to his face with nothing in his hand,” the island replied with equanimity.

This just caused her companion to sort derisively. “Hah! I'd forgotten I was talking to the girl who thought that she could sail all the way to Denmark and back in time for Christmas. You're not strange. You're living in a different world! Certifiable!”

Trying to ignore declarations about her sanity, Faroes looked at some of the stones rising further up the hill. “And you're still sitting here with me, eating lunch, so what does that make you?”

Glancing at the sky, it took a moment for Åland to put together an answer. “Mad, I guess. Mad as you, anyway. Just in a smarter way.”

“Hah! You nearly declared war on Germany!” Astrid repeated with growing enjoyment at the expression on his face. “With an army you don't have. With _two_ armies you don't have. Don't think I missed that allusion to wheedling Sweden out of his neutrality.”

“Well, it worked, and that's the proof of the pudding, as you people say. Anyway, I had good reason, didn't I? Or would you really have preferred that stop in Bremmerhaven?”

She reached over the intervening space to push him gently. “Pft. I'm too sweet for Gerry ports. I would just have floated off the dock and flown my way home.”

A wide smile splitting his face, Åland rocked back. “I'll have to tell Dad that one. It's just his kind of escape plan. Too bad I missed seeing it in action.”

As he rocked forward again, boyishly, for once, rather than in the manner of a fifty-year old curmudgeon stuck in an eighteen-year old body, Faroes thought he came a little closer. Maybe just one of Uncle Arthur's inches, but still that was something. It would be a better afternoon if he could loosen up around her, at least a little bit.

She took a bite of the lunch. “Yeah, you really missed something.”

“Didn't one of your fathers teach you not to speak with your mouthful?” Åland inquired playfully.

Just to spite him, Faroes sidled closer so he could have a good view of her lunch. “Nope. Is this something terribly faux pas?”

His hand, calloused and rough, reached out. For a second Faroes though he meant to close her mouth for her, but instead he just was blocking the sight from his eyes. Of course. Obviously. It was what Iceland would have done. After instructing his puffin to peck her. “Put that away,” Åland growled—exasperated growl number two. “You're horrible. I don't even think you can use 'faux pas' like that.”

Seeing as she had almost made a faux pas by assuming too much, Faroes was content to take another big bite of sandwich, and stare out to sea. “You're much easier to be around, you know.”

“Anyone could be easy around you after watching Scotland box your ears,” Åland replied lightly. “How did you end up explaining your little jaunt, anyway?”

She could feel his light blue eyes on her, sizing her up curiously. “Well, I couldn't exactly conceal that I was heading in a decidedly south eastern direction. So Uncle Arthur knows about that. But not the whole, you know, nearly declaring war on the Third Reich—”

“Hey, it was _my_ choice, not yours—”

“Come now, I don't think that you would have even thought of doing so without me on board—”

A disgusted noise gave Faroes the warm fuzzy feeling of victory. She could grow to like it. At least the way Åland caused that victory to grow in the pit of her stomach. Triumph never felt so sweet when she won over Denmark or England with her wonderful Faroese logic. Probably because neither of the others accepted the loss with grace.

Indeed, he managed a cool response of the best kind to her argument. “Okay, so if I should run into your dearest Uncle, no noises about you nearly flying across the ocean to get away from some of Prussia's finest hospitality.”

Astrid nodded, accepting things. “Yeah, that sounds about the flavor of it.”

They went back to lunch, watching the whirls of gray and white over the harbor as the clouds blew onward. Reaching for an orange between their respective seats, she found his hand reaching for the same orange. He snatched it back as though stung, leaving the choice of fruit to her. Faroes was slightly disappointed that she didn't have time to explore the feeling of his borders once more—high and shrill, an alarm sounded from the clock tower.

Astrid felt the shock take over her without really understanding. Her body just became rigid, and her head snapped towards the clouds. “No.”

Åland glared uncomprehendingly at her strange behavior. Or he probably glared. This was a time for glaring. She was acting the right idiot. “What?”

The high pitched scream came again, sweeping up in pitch and volume like the tide on the beach, retreating only when every nerve was fried. “No.”

“Faroes?!”

She—her mouth was dry. Why now? Why today? Arthur and his precious airbase would be visible to any bomber. No German could possibly want to bother with villages of ten to twenty houses. Surely not? Was it her fleets? But they hadn't docked back yet. No. No. No. “Air raid siren. That's an air raid siren. I guess Gerry's come to call—usually they just send a boat,” the bitter bitter feeling in the back of her mouth seemed to have spread to her smile. The Eastern battery should have taken care of any German planes easily. They picked off the ones that dogged the German cruisers easily enough. Shouldn't it?

But if a Gerry plane flew in low enough—no, still, they'd have to climb the cliffs. They had to take to the air. High altitude, and dodging her anti-aircraft guns? It couldn't be done.

_Willing to wager your burning mountains on it?_

Shut up! she screamed at her doubt.

The siren washed them with sound again, and then she saw it. Just out of the clouds, sliding like a gull through air currents between the two islands off the harbor, a gray-green plane plunged, looking as though it was actually going to crash. Swift as lightning another plane plummeted after it, and the water exploded in a spray of bullets.

Faroes just stood watching in bewilderment. Not a bomber? Suddenly the eagle-like pursuer peeled away from the gull—surely it must be sinking to the very depths—no! As the darker plane lifted, its gray and green prey shot out from the bottom of the dive, and began climbing again, graceful as a swan.

Maybe she screamed. Maybe it was just the wind, screaming for her at how  _bloody crazy_ the pilot was. No—both pilot and gunner. God above, they had almost gone for a swim! She would never have trusted anyone to fly out of a dive like that—Man had been meant for firm ground. “Did you  _see—_ ?”

“I see the German is coming back for another pass!” Åland yelled in her ear, and the Faroes was vaguely aware that someone had grabbed her arms. “We should get to cover!”

Dreamily, she tried to wave off his concern, thrilling as the British—it just had to be British, they produced the best pilots in the  _world—_ plane surged higher, turning with the fury of a hunting falcon. And the second plane rolled across an updraft sweeping along the coast, fire licking from her nose. Faroes caught a glimpse of the black and white cross on a wheeling wing, and then smoke enveloped Arthur's plane. Her unknown hero faltered in the sky. Swooped into another dive, peeling off over the slope leading from the town. Of course! The air base! It was the only flat piece of land on the Faroes. And the Gerry  _scum_ was being lead right to it—she could almost feel the vicious delight of the other pilot in the air, as he zoomed after the limping RAF fighter.

Out of the clouds burst a third plane in a hail of gun fire. Furious of being deprived of prey, almost, the Gerry turned to face the intruder on his hunt. But surprise had worked to the third participant's advantage. Already a wing had been torn into—

“Where are you going?” Åland yelled, and Astrid found herself struggling from the firm grip. 

For a second she stopped. Struck by indecision. Then her land trembled, taking the impact of burning metal on the far side of the slope. What did it matter if  Å land saw anything of England's installations? “Stay here, or, or,  _go_ ! I don't care! I've got to go help!”

Astrid gathered the land around her in her stride, and broke away from her guest. This wasn't his fight. It wasn't his war. It didn't matter to him.

She cleared the top of the graveyard, and then tackled the rising bowl of land at a run, pulling herself through her snow and mountains with as much ease as her sensible shoes allowed. Cresting the hill behind Sørvagur, Faroes stopped for a moment, buffeted by a rushing breeze.

Only a few meters away the allied aircraft crackled and burned, melting snow into rivulets. Putrid smoke billowed into her clean air. Cleanish. Nothing could be clean with the familiar smell of roasting flesh, and oddly, deep pine trees. A truck from the airbase had parked far below the crash, and men in green fatigues hauled a blackened something away from the wreckage. It was twitching. Astrid thought that it might be trying to scream without a tongue.

Arthur's familiar cursing wound through the cold air. “We have to be able to do bloody well _something_ about Alsbury! You can't tell me that titty-witted freak of bloody-minded nature buggered the gunner and left the Co—”

“He did, though, sir,” a patient voice of soothing logic interrupted England's tirade. “Now we're working to get Captain Williams out of harms' way, and you should come back, too. That engine will—”

However, the Faroes never got to hear what the engine would do because it did. A roar and plume of foul smelling fire struck toward the sky. The blast, far enough down the slope that she did not get singed, still knocked her hat off, blowing the crisped and roasting corpse stench all over her.

That, along with more blue language involving socks, snails, and very unlikely relationships with long necked women on the Isle of Lesbos, pulled Astrid out of her daze. She ran past the wreckage, heading directly for England. “Uncle! What happened?”

He turned, immediately looking even more furious. “See?” he yelled to the world at large. “That bloody _fat head_ can't even keep his fights to respectable limits! Nothing, my dear. There was just a tiny operation off the coast of the Netherlands today, and the Germans took a bit of an exception to our pilots—”

“The _Netherlands_?!” Astrid stopped to marvel at how long and hard both German and Englishman must have flown to end up in her part of the world.

Arthur coughed. “Yes, well, I ordered both the Commonwealth and Poland out there to help when the back up wasn't arriving on time. We almost had the _Prinz Eugen_ , you know! But I suspect that potentially crippling either one of my biggest army divisions, or the Polish in exile, would have been a tempting target to any one of our kind [7]. Or the humans, seeing as they've been ordered to go after us, now,” the last was muttered so low that Faroes was certain no one was supposed to have heard that.

The very thought chilled her. Humans targeting the lands? Well, obviously, they were important targets, but on the open field personifications should, by and large, fight personifications. No human should have to feel as though the very land was fighting him, nor should the land ever feel that their bright human lives were fighting them. That humans could be ordered— “Well, if that's happening, then, well, the Germans are monsters!”

Arthur gave her an affectionate smile. “Look, I've got to get back to the airbase with the Commonwealth. Join me. Our lads in the injuries unit could always use your brand of certainty.”

Thinking back almost longingly to the oranges and lunch on the other side of the ridge, Faroes realized that she couldn't exactly refuse the offer. Not with Uncle Arthur's elbow extended to her in a proper display of decorum. 'Hi, actually I want to put you off so I can continue sitting with my good friend, who is neutral and of whom you would certainly never approve, if only because Scotland seemed to be fine with him in December' did not seem to be an acceptable note to strike.

Sighing heavily, Faroes remembered her duty, and accepted Arthur's arm. He lead her along the snow dusted road with all the gallantry that she could have asked for, under other circumstances. But there was a cooling corpse and two thin-mouthed humans mounting up in the vehicle behind the two personified lands, and England was insisting on being cheerful.

“Still got your scarf, by the way,” he said, as they trudged on.

Astrid, considering warping the land a little to hurry their walk, gave England a skeptical look. “Well, you haven't exactly had oodles of time to lose it.”

He nodded in acknowledgment, but tapped the side of his nose with his free hand. “Ahhh, that's what you think. But scarves are sneaky. They're not socks, of course. _Those_ little bu—blighters will run out on you, and then tease you from behind the washing pile as you search and search. But scarves can be quite tricky in their own right.”

Snorting, the young lady shook her head. “Personally my only problem with socks is that one will get lost, while the other remains.”

“And it's always the left one!” England agreed fiercely.

The seriousness of this delivery, forced something to bubble through Faroes' sternum. The laughter shook her shoulders before exploding into the misty air. Nothing could stop the tumbling scream, even stumbling into England, who grabbed her, and patted her back, as she trembled. “There—um, if you're going to vomit, though, warn me first,” he murmured, before soothing noises became a soft chant.

The ground rocked for a second. It bucked with her spine as laughter and something else broke in more waves over Astrid. ripping at her like the high tide. Maybe she would feel better if she threw up. Maybe then her stomach would stop churning with lava.

Through it all, England maintained a firm meaningless chant of things he thought were comforting noises. They weren't. 'There, there' meant nothing. Storms meant something. The wash of the sea meant something. It meant that all was right with the world. That there were no nasty submarines in her waters. That machines did not drop from the sky on her bright, lovely islands. That no one blew up in fountains of water and force.

Finally, the shaking hands managed to find her coat pocket, and a handkerchief, which went to her mouth first, as something to bite. With the loud bubbles of hysteria calmed, the Faroes was able to get the white cloth from her mouth, and promptly blew her nose.

England, still hugging her, managed a stern frown. “I hope that was clean before you tried to swallow it.

Weakly, Astrid chuckled, feeling slightly waterlogged. “Yes, Uncle. I'm sorry about that. I don't know what—”

“No need to explain,” England shook his head. “I used to have fits like that every week back in the Great War.”

This did not put the set of islands off. “You had people dying all around you—I'm practically at peace! I don't—I don't understand. I've seen far worse. I've fought before. I just—the socks, and then the burning body, and the planes, and why did they have to explode on my island—why here? We're—we—It's my land! Why now? Why does everything have to be so nasty? Why do we have to be losing? I don't want to become German. I want to be part of your house. I want my own house. I want to go back home. I don't know! I want my family back! Scotland said Norway hadn't checked in at the normal time, and what if something awful has happened to him? What's happening to Denmark?! And why am I going to pieces, when nothing has really happened!?”

Silence resounded from her slopes. Far away now, the automobile puttered toward the site of the airbase, and its infirmary. Faroes had often stood alone on her mountains, doing nothing but feeling the land all around her, feeding her exuberance into the soil. Now, with winter round about, the living magic of her raw rocks and grass seemed solemn, as if in death.

England patted her shoulder. “I'll see if I can find out about Norway. You needn't worry.”

That wasn't a comfort, or of any use. They weren't the right words. Maybe there were no right words.

The two began to walk again, and at least that was right. Walking. Forward. To. There was a goal. A purpose to all of this. A _reason_ why a personification had been shot out of the cloudy sky over her land. Because there had to be a reason. Something better than the mines that took her fishermen on accident. Something better than a casualty of war. Something like a fight to determine whether humans died or lived. Something better than a mere desire to hurt just because two pilots had caught sight of each other.

“Do you think you'll be okay?” Arthur inquired solicitously.

Faroes waited for a moment, smelling the wet cold air. Her shoes crushed the snow under them. Under the snow and ice there was her land. Everything that mattered was trapped under the blanket of winter. Trapped in a way that had been ordained by the world long ago. If Father was here he would explain how winter was just part of a natural cycle. A cycle that surrounded the world. The universe. where everything went round and round. Even war.

Winter was to be thwarted by spring. If that was so, then what thwarted war?

“Yeah, Uncle. England, sir, how can I help?”

They walked along, careful of the increasing grade of the slope, as they headed to the warding wall of the potential airbase. England stared at the guard post, as though trying to inspect it from long distance, for such a great length of time that Astrid wondered if she should repeat the question. But a cleared throat indicated deep cogitation. “Just, you know, ministering, and that. There aren't many people staying in our infirmary, luckily. But you know humans. They always feel better when we show that we know what they do for us.”

Astrid nodded, barely even cringing. Ministering, as England put it, was the worst price any land had to pay. Watching the bright lights of human existence breathe their last. Just watch, maybe comfort, but mostly, just watch. Watch as disease brought them low. Watch as famine overtook them. War. Death. The pale riders who could barely touch the land, but brought humans to a halt.

England flashed his badge at the gate, clearly stating that he was bringing the Faroes Islands as a guest. With a respectful touch of the cap, they were waved through. Within the yard of the airbase enough people had moved and cleared snow that what little was left had been trodden into gray slush. Most men were over by the airfield, working on getting the land truly flat and building the requisite hangars. Over by one wall some industrious young man jogged towards a door on a side building with the air of a constant errand boy.

Arthur followed the man's path with his eyes, and then nodded to himself. “I have to report to the commanders. You can find your way to the hospital?”

“The big sheet metal building over there?” Astrid pointed to where the red cross was painted against a white circle. “I think I'll be able to find it, sir.”

“Don't be cheeky,” England warned, glowering.

Astrid raised her eyebrows knowingly. “I don't know any other way, sir,” she retorted.

The grunted response covered a smile, but England waved one hand in dejected acceptance of the way things were. Faroes strode to her destination, trying to keep her back straight and military. This was a job. It was a duty. It certainly was the wrong way to think about the pain of humans, but what could she do when she was unable to do anything about the injuries?

Gritting her teeth, the personification of the Faroes Islands pushed open the door. A hall stretched before her, terminating in some swinging doors. Probably the surgery. A gurney could be rolled with ease down the hallway, and through those doors. The stink of burning flesh's ghostly memory suddenly filled her nostrils. No. She would not peek in to see if the nation had been dragged into the grim operating room. No.

The patient ward was hardly better. First the matron gave her strict orders not to stay too long in case she upset the men. Faroes spent the lecture looking at the woman's wing-like cap, wondering how something so ridiculous could convey such authority. Did her uniform look like that to other people? Probably not, or else Åland would have laughed at her. He wasn't a terribly good actor. Or maybe he was. Still, he wouldn't lie without reason, and he didn't seem to have the malicious streak in his sense of humor that Father possessed.

If Norway had not brought her up in the world with settlers, Faroes guessed that she would not have enjoyed knowing him. It seemed strange that someone as sweet and simultaneously quick-tempered as Anko had managed to live with him for centuries without wanting to spit him dead at every opportunity. Even though Norway could be kind and decent, his idea of a joke was sharp. If he thought that someone was an idiot, they were the butt of every mean thing he could think of, and that kind of attitude—Well, Faroes was glad that she was closer to Denmark now, and even gladder that her unexpected friend in Åland was not like Norway, for all they shared the same taciturnity. Sea folk did that.

Stepping past the matron, the Faroes made her way down the center aisle. Most of the men, and thankfully this was a small number, were sleeping, although one man was upright, reading a letter. Choosing him as her first person to speak to, the islands pulled up a chair, and cleared her throat.

“Hallo, I'm not interrupting, am I?”

Large eyes looked up guiltily. “Oh, no, Miss. I was just reading something my brother sent me.”

The awkward question was how to begin, and that little fact seemed to be the perfect opportunity. Faroes grinned. “Stationed somewhere is he?”

The young man snorted. “Not likely. Unless you consider Highborough Day School the front lines, which it might well be I suppose.”

“I wouldn't know, I'm afraid. It all seems kind of foreign to me,” extending a hand, the personification smiled encouragingly. “I'm Astrid. I'm here to visit and collect stories.”

The hand that met hers trembled slightly in her grip. Astrid's eyebrows attempted not to crease. He was still dealing with shock. From the looks of things his face held powder burns, but everything seemed to be all right, minus the cast on his leg. What had shocked this young man so badly? Arthur had told her about lack of moral fiber, but then he had admitted to having fits.

“Christopher, Ma'am. Christopher Derrick,” his name interrupted the whirling thoughts.

Oh yes, you're supposed to be ministering. What do you say? 'We've all been at war before, don't worry.' The Faroes looked earnestly into the young man's eyes as she let his hand drop. “Your brother is probably still getting into trouble, even with you here,” the words poured out, easy, and ignoring the petty things like injury.

The human couldn't help laughing. He looked away, trying to find a window, probably. Find some connection to the outside world, where little brothers were playing. Minsitering wasn't that hard, if you could stand listening. “True enough. He's probably still climbing the old tree in Mr Higgins'—but that's splinters, actually, I heard,” the laugh twisted from his mouth again. “Bloody Gerry, huh? They realized what a vital institution the old apple tree was, and chose to bomb it, instead of something useless, like a school or bank.”

God was that true, Astrid nodded. Just like Gerry, hitting you where it really hurt. “Well they're sneaky like that, using apple trees to cover the fact that they can't aim worth an apple.”

“Never a truer word, Miss. Mmm. I haven't had a good apple in forever. Or onions. There was sausage on Tuesday, though.”

“I could go for a really good thick stew,” the Faroes admitted.

Food and fond memories of carrots filled their little corner, before the shaking man drooped enough to make the girl excuse herself, and move to the next bed. Here the talk went as far from food as possible, dwelling on the man's hobby of photography, and Astrid's own intimate knowledge of her islands. By the time she saw another waking convalescent, her naval man had already made plans for his next day off.

Her rounds of the ward erratically jumped from conscious man to conscious man, weaving around nurses, and the occasional doctors. It could not have been all that long to see everyone, and yet the clock ticking serenely on the wall told the young woman that she had been at work for almost two hours. She leaned against a partition, trying to rest her eyes. Or just rest. There was only one wounded man show she hadn't seen yet today, and, well, she did not have to really see him did she?

The door creaked open again, bringing a sharp salty smell of the sea. Impressive, considering that the door did not lead to the outside. Faroes smiled to herself, before frowning, and raising her eyes. As expected, Åland was walking through beds, his weather beaten coat armoring him against the human attention of curious nurses.

Well that wouldn't do. Just because he was putting on his land-ness to make humans uncomfortable did not mean that the neutral nation could come into one of England's military installations unchallenged. Faroes let her eyebrows rise in intimidating arrogance. “How did you get in?”

That question clearly startled the young region. “I just walked—”

“You're a security risk,” Faroes tried to inform him with the cool compunction of any of the efficient women holding a position in England's army.

Shifting awkwardly, the strong feeling of, well, Åland dropped from his shoulders. It would have been comic, if the red of his face suggested that he was embarrassed rather than angry. “Well excuse me, Princess, for worrying. I felt the explosion—if I had known that you were in tip top shape I would have simply sailed without saying goodbye.”

Steeling herself along her spine, Faroes stuck her nose slightly into the air. “You're not one of our soldiers. Allow me to escort you from the premises. Anyway, there was no reason for you to be worried.”

A bitterness slid into the scowl, and Åland turned his head to the right, as though he couldn't stand to look at Astrid. “Yeah. I can't think why I was stupid like that.”

“Eyes forward,” the blond told him, not wanting to give a potential enemy time to study anything that might be of use.

Unfortunately, he seemed to see through that order, for he fixed her with a freezing stare. “I'm not your enemy.”

“You're not my ally,” the islands informed him coolly.

She watched his mouth work and twitch with silent refutations. There were lines not even friends could cross. Not if they were neutral. “What if I promise I'll forget everything, and just turn around and leave, then?”

The wall pressed insistently into Astrid's back. Was she trying to back up? What could he do, really? He had seen a hospital. So what? “Tell me how you got past the gate, first. We do have a guard there for a reason.”

At this, Åland's unexpectedly ruddy complexion returned—probably an effect of the electric light. “I, um, pretended I was the Shetland Islands.”

So he had known that he shouldn't come into this installation! But his ruse managed to draw a chuckle from Astrid, all the same. “You really aren't going to help poor Shetland's reputation, you know.”

“Oh? Is he a friend of yours, and now forbidden from seeing you by England, or something?” there was something just too innocent about that reply.

Faroes wanted to scowl, but it was hard to do so in the presence of a master. “Well, for starters _she_ really hates being mistaken for a man. For another thing, this isn't England's order. There is a bit of a war on, if you hadn't noticed, Mr. Neutrality. You're not one of us.”

Again, Åland made his twitchy mouth face, before crossing his arms in challenge. Faroes almost felt the rigidity of his spine as he drew himself up to his full height. “Show me out, then.”

Reacting to the arrogance, the older islands half turned, waving her hand in dismissal. Father would have been proud. “I don't have time for this. You said you would leave all on your own.”

“That was before you insulted me,” his voice held the faintest cadence of a sneer.

The truth was not an insult, Faroes wanted to retort, but he was right. Sort of. If he had to be. There were ways you could take the most cutting edge of truth and use it to your personal ends. Åland might have the right to call her out on that. Maybe. But she had ministering to get to. Astrid jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Out those swinging doors, and then take a right, and exit the building through the little door at the end of the hall. Consider yourself showed out. I can get military police to do it for you.”

She started walking toward the little curtained partition where a nurse hovered attentively. Last stop of the day. And Åland's boots scuffed the floor behind her. On a mission of ignoring annoying _boys_ who did not understand how close they were to breaking their neutrality, Faroes continued, stiff backed over hard concrete. Scuff scuff.

She whirled. “What do you think you're doing?”

A tight, taunting smile graced Åland's face. “Following my guide, I guess.”

“You're being childish.”

“I'm proving a point,” he retorted, the smile leaving. “We're the personified land. With each other, when it's just between us, we can be _trusted_. _I_ can be trusted. Haven't I made that clear? I don't care about your stupid war, but that doesn't mean that I'm going to sell the knowledge that one man has a broken arm to Germany.”

Shifting on her feet, Faroes debated the merits of the argument. “If England sees you in here—”

“I'll be under the watch of a competent young lady who would do absolutely nothing to endanger his people,” he held her eyes, as though trying to bore through any defenses with his stubborn glare.

Faroes grit her teeth, feeling those defenses of the rules that governed human lives crumbling. “All right. But you're going to have to stay with me. And this is the unpleasant part of my duties.”

He stepped beside her, looking visibly relieved. Had he thought that she really would order him summarily thrown from the hospital? He did not know her at all, really. “I don't see any fish to gut.”

The idea of gutting anything right now made Faroes' stomach heave. “That was in bad taste,” she informed him tartly. “I find trying to comfort people difficult.”

Surprise genuinely crystallized on his words. “I don't believe it. You're,” Åland actually took his hands out of his pockets to gesture futilely, “you're—quite capable.”

“That doesn't make it any easier to sit and encompass what a world with permanent injury looks like,” Faroes replied quietly. “I know I've been quite lucky. Anko has always been a quick healer, and none of us in the sea have been in bad conflicts for I can't think how many years—but that still does make me want a huge catch of herring to gut and clean rather than this. Herring are relaxing.”

He snorted, following her reluctant footsteps. “It's the wrong end of the trade for me. I always find myself wondering whether the fish I'm holding had any idea what was going to happen to it that morning. We—humans, land—we know that we're taking our lives into our hands at any moment, but what's it like for a fish? Can they think ahead?”

“You think strange things, you know that?” Astrid asked, before addressing the nurse: “Excuse me, ma'am. Visitors for, um—”

The helpful woman in her winged cap smiled. “Captain Williams, Wren. I'll see if he's fit for seeing people yet, sir. He said he didn't want to have to report to anyone until the skin on his face fully regrew.”

With a swish and twitch of curtain, the human was gone. Astrid caught the curious tilt of Åland's head just over her shoulder. “Wren? I would have thought that you rated better than a regular seaman. You have the experience for a petty officer at least.”

Faroes found her mouth quirking in what must have been a direct imitation of her friend's 'trying to find the right answer' face. “Well, you know how it is with an army,” a wince stole over Åland's features, and the Faroes hastily corrected her assumption. “Er, sorry, I forgot the demilitarized thing. But, well, with an army, it's always good to have us stationed at as many different ranks as possible. Uncle Arthur is using me to bolster his female fighters.”

“Hmph,” the Fenno-Swede looked rather as though he was sucking on a lemon, Faroes decided. “I suppose that was what gave you the rather foolish notion that you could cross the North Sea on your own in the first place?”

The ceiling, Faroes discovered, rather to her amazement, was solid plaster without any exposed duct work. She examined the flat white surface while counting to ten, and then looked back at Åland. “Will you let that _go_?”

Surprisingly, the young man stuck his chin forward in childish belligerence. “Nuh-uh. I—”

Luckily, Faroes could tear her attention away from what would surely be another dissection of everything that she had done wrong, as the nurse arrived at that moment. “Is Captain Williams capable of seeing visitors, ma'am?”

Trailing behind the woman's answer of “Yes, miss,” Åland's rolling voice finished with “—first saw you.”

Faroes pretended not to have heard. No use in getting into argument, and she had probably missed some words. Best just drop it. She nipped around the curtain, wondering if for the sake of security she should hope that Åland followed, or if for the sake of peace she hoped that he would keep himself and his opinions on the other side of the cloth barrier.

Lying on a quick cot, swathed in yellow stained sheets, a broken man shifted pain-tight eyes their way. Under rippling pink skin a slash that must have been a mouth cracked and gaped in greeting. “Sorry,” he croaked, “I'd sit to attention, but I'm still a little too bubbly to move yet. Who are you? One of Scotland's islands?”

Swallowing against the image of thick red gold hair re-growing in curled clumps against the bright pink scalp, Faroes stepped forward. “I'm the Faroe Islands, sir. England sent me to check on you. Is it too much to talk?”

“Oh no!” the whisper floated among swimmy pieces of rebuilding lung, Faroes was certain. “I love to talk with people. You're one of Denmark's, aren't you? I'm very familiar with Greenland.”

Really? Faroes had never heard of this Captain Williams. Not that Greenland was chatty about his neighbors, but surely something would have dropped about a nation who flew into danger so recklessly.

But even so, just by sharing a room with the man, she should have been able to get a sense of his land. If he was a nation, he was remarkably _quiet_. The true nations always exuded a push against the land around them. It might not be anything more than the faint hint of pine forests that Father always carried with him, or it could be as forceful as the rolling water in the Netherlands' words, but this land did not make any impression. Of course, Faroes knew that she barely made an impression until she spoke, but she was just a set of islands. This was supposedly a whole nation! “He hasn't mentioned you. But he doesn't talk much, you know.”

The eyes, still cloudy and filmed as the muscle of the iris regrew, shifted to look at the ceiling. “No, he doesn't. And your parents have forgotten, anyway. So, you're the Faroes. I'm supposed to send some of my men to you soon. It's good to see that they'll be well taken care of.”

Astrid wondered how he could be so certain of her good will. It was probably just something to say. A full nation talking to a measly county. Adult to child, even though she would bet that she was older than he was. Still, she should try to be civil. “I'll do my best, sir.”

The other nation must have heard something in her tone, for he began to chuckle. The motion of his throat set something off, and suddenly, he was hacking, spitting, and making the bubbly noises of pus in the wrong place. Astrid crossed the remaining distance in a swift bound, propping the healing body up, and rolling it to the side.

Raw flesh cracked under her hands, and the lightness of human bones was so clear as the clammy puss-covered body rattled and heaved. She nearly swallowed her own tongue, however, as her sense of sheer space increased a thousand fold. The world _expanded._ Forests vaster than Father's loomed on every horizon. In a hospital room across the Atlantic and North Sea a small girl spun in a snow covered plain that reached to a horizon defined by mountains that had never known fjords. Cities whirred and hummed with more human life than had ever lived on her land. Electricity and railroads formed fragile connections to humanity that had to share the hugeness with quick dancing deer, clumsy bears, beautiful eagles, strong salmon. Trees sheltered huge four footed beasts peaceful and majestic. Angry and charging. Gold sang melodious under soil and was answered by thousands of minerals ready to be ripped from the embrace of the ground, and changed by human industry. It enfolded the Faroes in the chaos of a rich largeness that could only be explored finger length by finger length, and never understood.

The land shuddered, and she was back in her hospital, supporting something so massive that she could barely understand how he fit inside his own body in the same way that she did. How did the delicate traceries of blood vessels and poor covering of skin even begin to explain glaciers and school houses all over? With a final spattering hack, Astrid felt the shudder of something leaving the nation's body only to splat lumpily on the floor.

With a shaky breath the man relaxed against her hand, pushing boney vertebrae into her gloves. His eyes slid towards her, suddenly clear and surprisingly purple. “Sorry. I chose a bad place to get shot down, eh? I need to remember that losing is a bad strategy.”

The Faroes laughed as she carefully lowered his bare frame to the bed once more. “Well, lucky for you, you've got me as your new landlady. I'm made of winning. I say, you're remarkably fast at healing.”

“Mmm? Really?” tiredly the nation gazed at the ceiling. “It's practice, I suppose. Airplane burns are pretty easy to get over.”

“That's ridiculous,” Åland snorted at Astrid's elbow, surprising the girl.

A full golden eyebrow on a patch of skin that had probably escaped burning rose. “I'm sorry? Do I know you? You're not the personification of Vágar, are you? Wren Faroes, would you be so kind as to introduce me to your island?”

Both smaller lands spluttered slightly. Well, Astrid tried to hide her giggles, and her companion shook from some repressed offense. Maybe, the Faroes realized, studying Åland covertly, the ruddy weatherbeaten cast of his skin was only a deep blush. Lucky Åland, that his body disguised discomfort so well. Astrid did not flush often, but as Father and Anko had both commented, she looked soooo amusing when the awkward crab apples appeared on her cheeks.

Still there would be time to admire Åland's natural defenses later. “Oh, he's not mine, sir. This is the autonomous region of the Aland Islands.”

“I go by Landskapet Åland,” the young man agreed, correcting the English flattening of his name.

The bed-ridden nation frowned slightly. “I remember when your case came before the League of Nations. You were supposed to be Finland's land. Japan insisted upon it quite firmly.”

Putting on that secret arrogance that family always seemed to bring up, Åland stood a little straighter. “I am a neutral party. As I have explained _multiple_ times. I am demilitarized. Is there a law against a neutral land from conducting his business with his neighbors when he breaks nothing but a German blockade to do so?”

Astrid saw the stumbling block in that sentence almost as soon as Captain Williams. She only groaned internally, while the healing nation gently responded with his own reasonable stubbornness. “Well, there is, actually, if you are in a British military installation. It's called the Official State Secrets Act. Surely you got the paperwork when you were admitted.”

The young man stuck his hands deep into his pockets, wearing the 'I'm not going to agree with _anything_ you say' scowl. “We're the personification of land whether there is a war on or not. Trust shouldn't be an issue between us.”

“Have you told any of the Soviet Republics of your fascinating theories?” the pilot replied pleasantly. His voice was so soft and diffident that Astrid barely heard the knife contained behind the words. “I have reason to believe that they would agree with you.”

In contemptuous return, Åland snorted. “Something that you know from being such good allies with the Bolshies, I assume. Sir.”

Astrid glared in loyal defense of her superior. “Really? Well, Mr.—”

Raising a blistered hand, the captain put an end to her disagreement. “No, it's fine. Mr. Åland, I think you'd get along fairly well with my brother. But what are you doing here? Surely there isn't _that_ much trade.”

The seafarer shifted awkwardly, his scowl heading towards the inscrutable. For a second, Astrid caught the glance of his startling eyes under the shadow of his hat, as though he was trying to get her to provide the answer for what he was doing in a British airbase. However, Åland turned his attention back to the nation quickly enough. “I was bored, and I came to visit a friend. Your whole crash landing managed to neatly ruin my day.”

“A friend,” the healing nation repeated, sitting up against his pillow. His mouth, still horrifyingly orangey pink, carved a smile through the rippling skin of his face. “Of course. Terribly inconsiderate of me. Next time I'll ask that Prussia check with everyone's day plans before we try to shoot each other out of the sky. But even though I ruined your day, can I at lest know if the anti-aircraft guns managed to pick him off?”

Åland frowned. “That was Prussia? I thought he was in Norway. He's not exactly strong enough to manifest himself in multiple areas, anymore.”

What? Astrid was astounded. How did a neutral nation know that?

“Oh?” purple eyes glittered. “I had no idea he was based in Norway.”

Not realizing, perhaps, what he was saying, Åland shrugged. “Spain wanted me to give him some package or other. Said he was in Norway. I couldn't take it, of course. Not with the blockade.”

Vigo, the Faroes remembered darkly. She could feel the lie in his words. Åland hadn't wanted to see her. Well, not really. The Faroes was a convenient stop. That was all. A convenient stop between Vigo and one of Father's northern ports.

With a one sided quirk of the lips, Åland gazed at Captain Williams shrewdly. “I think it was a book—that's what you're fishing for, isn't it? Spain had it wrapped up, but it felt like a book. Old. Valuable, maybe? For all I know, Spain's current boss may have taken a liking to book burning. Spain's an old country. There might be something that he wants to save. If the Reich wins this war, sending your precious books to Prussia might not be the worst strategy.”

“They burn books in Germany, too,” the pilot replied flatly, the brightness of his eyes dulling. “Thanks, I suppose. One more little mystery to puzzle out. Speaking of mysteries, has anyone seen my bear? He's small and white, and answers to, uh, er, Kumahiro? Jiroukuma? Something like that anyway.”

He had a bear?! Astrid felt an absurd surge of pet envy. “I've got a sheep you could take,” the islands suggested helpfully. “He's a lazybones and is terrified of water, but otherwise you can have him.”

The man in bed chuckled. “No tha—”

Something slammed whang bong! Whirling, both island regions stared past the stripey curtain. Another man, still wrapped warmly in flying leathers, strode down the aisle of beds. Just looking at him gave Faroes an intense soaring feeling in the pit of her stomach. She could feel boundless energy radiating from every blond hair, trying to reach out and tickle her.

The effect of the matron walking up to the man was startling. One minute, he crowed at the top of his lungs: “Like, Australia—” and then the next he seemed to withdraw, the pink excitement in his cheeks flooding his face with embarrassment. “Oh, 'scuse me, miss. Have you seen a young man around here? Tallish, blonde, strange eyes? Like waaaaay too cute and shy?”

From the bed echoed a strangled noise of protest. Astrid turned to grin at Captain Williams, who must be the object of the awkward pilot's search. “Don't worry, I'm sure he's talking about Åland, here.”

Åland swung from the curtain as though on a swivel joint. The wonderful 'I am not an object of mockery' frown stamped itself all over his face. “I am not—”

“Blonde? You're almost as tall as I am, certainly,” Captain Williams suggested, timing his ribbing perfectly.

The Faroes favored the injured man with a knowing grin. “You have to admit, your eyes are highly unusual.”

As Åland turned back to glare threateningly at the Wren, the pilot added another barb. “Well, I suppose he isn't completely shy. Although the way his shoulders hunch around his body is—”

“Entirely cute,” the Faroes decided.

The male island's eyebrows twitched as his bright eyes narrowed. “I am not cute.”

“You are,” Astrid refused the statement with a flip of her hand, before drawing back the curtain. “Sir, I believe the person who you are looking for is right here.”

The neat blond head shifted to the side, looking beyond a now very flustered matron's shoulder. “Um, like, well, thank you, ma'am. Excuse me?” he looked imploringly at the nurse, and then easily ducked around her.

Åland nodded at the personification as the pilot ducked around the curtain. “Poland.”

Bright green eyes blinked, and the animation returned to the closed face in an instant. “Oh! You're Fin's kid! No, like, wait. I'm sure my totes fantastic memory will get this. O—Oland? Åland. Like, aren't you impressed? What are you doing here? I thought that your family was all busy—”

“I'm demilitarized, sir. Mostly I trade now,” as usual, Astrid noticed the slight tinge of shame creeping under his skin at the mention of his status.

Poland bit his lip, glancing shrewdly at the boy. “Well, that's probably for the best. Finland's been making stupid enough decisions without getting you dragged into them.”

The words caused Åland to turn into a rigid pole in indignation. “We work with what we have. Sir. As you would know.”

Poland shrugged diffidently. “Like, just because Russia is completely whako doesn't mean that _all_ of his ideas are terrible. Just, like the vaaaaaast majority. Still an improvement over our resident red-eyed looney. Like, America, we totes need to talk about you taking on suicide missions without warning the rest of the squadron like that. I've already briefed Arthur. Took the bastard down over the sea. He'll have a very long walk home, and like, if there's any justice, he might just expire, ya know?”

“—nada,” Captain Williams breathed out a sigh. “I thought that I could take him, all right, Poland? He was just having one of his ace days. Glad to hear you got him. How's the battle going? No one will tell me if we managed to get the _Scharnhorst_ or not.”

Poland snorted, and looked firmly at the two younger lands. “Sorry, but like, it's time for nations to confer, right? You go off and be totes sweet somewhere else.”

Faroes smiled, hearing a mumbled “—not sweet,” from the direction of Åland's rain slicker. “Yes, sir. Should I take this as a dismissal?”

“As much as I'm enabled to give you leave, I do,” Poland offered magnanimously. “But, like seriously, nothing against either of you, but this is pilot only info, 'kaysies?”

“Thank you sir,” Faroes nodded, stepping around the curtain.

She hesitated for a moment, uncertain if she should pull it across the space once more, but Åland popped around the cloth, and she felt justified shutting the other two in, and then strolling out of the ward. Shutting her eyes as she navigated, Faroes listened to the pull and crash of the sea. “If you don't leave soon, you'll miss the tide,” she observed to Åland.

His trudging step beside her became the only reply for a while. Faroes wondered, as they crossed from concrete to iced over pavement, if he was ignoring her, or just trying to find the right answer. He would ignore a silly off-hand comment, so that was probably—

“That's what the boiler is for,” Åland replied.

They walked on in silence, Faroes glancing up at the already darkened sky. Soon the lights of the airbase would leave them entirely. “I never ate the orange,” she reflected sadly.

“I'll leave yours for you.”

Smile. How do you thank someone for small kindesses? Or big ones. Would a bigger smile work? “Hey,” his bright eyes shifted towards her face, “thanks for that.”

A beat. Smirk. “Yeah, well,” he replied, “I left it in that creepy graveyard anyway.”

The smile fell from Faroes' face. “You're terrible.”

“I wasn't the one who ran off to be a good nurse or whatever and left my guest stranded among the dead of my people.”

She shoved him, half hoping that Åland would lose his footing and come down hard in the snow. She would pick him up afterward, of course, and help get him dry and warm again, but the silly idiot would deserve a little tumble. “They were a nice bunch. Quiet. I would have thought you would have appreciated the chance to glower in peace.”

It was hard to make out, but as they crossed through the gate out of the airbase, Faroes thought that Åland was looking thoughtful. How strange. She had expected a scowl of denial. Or perhaps a glower of justification. Instead, all she got was: “It's hard to glower without an object to glower at. Why not make a deal? You just stand right there, and stay quiet, and I'll stare at you with supreme irritation. How about that?”

“Hah ha,” Faroes rolled her eyes. The hill began to climb, and she should save her breath, but she promised herself to have the last word. “I want to get home tonight, and you'd never be able to manage supreme irritation with _me_.”

The silence that accompanied that remark seemed to be trying to pointedly call attention to their first official meeting. “Oh,” Åland seemed want to sound confident, but he could only manage a bit of a mumble. “I can certainly _try_.”

Astrid tried to sniff like a lady, but it sounded to her ears as though she merely had a cold. “You'll never win.”

“And I suppose you will,” Åland shot back, tilting his head once again to look at the purpling sky.

Maybe not. Maybe no one would win. Maybe they would all grind each other down until there was nothing left. Maybe for every plane down in flames, one would drown. Maybe—maybe there were too many maybes.

“Yes, I will,” Faroes replied, leaning into Åland's shoulder, as they trudged over the land together. “I always win.”

* * *

**Footnotes**

* * *

[1] - During the British occupation of the Faroes the Faroese populace gained a taste for English food stuff, particularly several brands of English chocolate.

[2] - The German occupation of Britian's channel islands was brutal. Every so often residents would be able to sneak off the islands to England and thus bring the news of sudden arrests, deportations to French prisons renowned for their horrifying conditions, and SS crackdowns, to the British public. It made great propaganda fodder, but thousands of residents of the Channel islands just disappeared, or had their former lives snatched away.

[3] – The _HMS Hood_ was the largest battle cruiser built for the Royal Navy at the time, and the largest battleship ever built in the world until 1944. In May 1941, while engaging with the _Bismark_ and the _Prinz Eugen_ in the Danish Strait, it was shelled by the _Bismark_ and went down so fast that only three people survived the sinking, despite the other British ships in the near area. News of the sinking had a devastating effect on the British public, who were already aware of severe losses on all fronts, the constant bombing of London, and the recent loss of the British in the Invasion of Norway. As a response, Churchill made the destruction of the _Bismark_ a priority. There is disagreement as to whether Churchill should have done this, as the _Bismark_ was one ship, and used resources that could have been deployed to better effect elsewhere, one of my sources calling the move an obsession with Churchill, edging into the completely deranged Captain Ahab territory. However, within two days of the _Hood_ 's sinking, the _Bismark_ was damaged beyond repair, and had to be scuttled. The 'destruction' of the _Bismark_ was used as a morale booster in the British Press.

[4] – I haven't been able to find much source material in English on the actual infrastructure on the Faroes during the war. There's a more than passing chance that there was a radio station in Sørvágur already built, that was then turned into a military posting—but just as likely, an empty house could have been commandeered, or even new construction begun. I threw a dart at the three options that seemed most likely, and came up with this. If anyone's got any information, or a book/website/something for me to look up, I'd be forever indebted to you.

[5] - I struggled with Agnes' character. She's highly contemptuous of English dominion over the United Kingdom, and supports home rule for Scotland. However, the 1940s in Britain enforced respect of authority figures very seriously, and I'm not certain Agnes would feel comfortable talking about Arthur like that.

[6] – Ships going dark in this particular context means that they're don't have any standard communication. Agnes is talking about vessels that are either headed out to mine sensitive waters, or reconnaissance vessels, or even vessels that are dropping spies at other destinations. The harbor would be notified, depending upon the level of secrecy, and the mission sensitivity of the ships in a variety of ways, but this radio station, which is monitoring normal traffic, would not officially know what was going on with those boats. Of course, if you work in close quarters with a small number of people, word gets about, even when the specifics are unknown.

[7] - By late 1941 the Third Reich felt that with the Americans in the war it would be strategic to move the primary base of German naval power to the Norwegian 'front' as it were. If Germany could cripple the British on the smaller waters of the North Sea, then they could return to the Atlantic, and leisurely pick off the Americans. However, when this decision was made, many German ships were on the wrong side of England, and had no access to the North Sea. To the north of Scotland the water was filled with mines. The only way through south of England was through the English Channel, which was narrow enough for the British to control with anti-aircraft guns and long range artillery. On February 13th 1942 three heavy cruisers, the _Scharnhorst_ , _Gneisenau_ , and the _Prinz Eugen_ , the bane of the British fleets, made a daylight run through the channel. The RAF patrolling the waters were unable to radio back to the South coast, thanks to a general radio silence in effect. The response of the airforce was lamentably late as a result. However, late in the day Canadian squadrons flew out, and began to back up the flights already fighting the ships. The distraction of the fighters meant that both the the _Scharnhorst_ and _Gneisenau_ were hit by sea mines, which took them out of action until March 1943.


End file.
